The Hidden Target Page 13

  “Dead to the world,” she told him. “Coming?”

  He turned away, began walking towards the road.

  Where was he headed? The café? Okay, damn you, she told him, stripping completely, and ran into the tepid waters. She had almost a hundred yards to wade before her waist was covered. No swimming possible but she could float, letting her hair spread around her head like a silver halo under the stars.

  ***

  Quietly, Nina slipped into the camper, decided against switching on its light and wakening Madge, fumbled her way towards her narrow bed. This must be the way you lived on a submarine, she thought as she reached into her overhead locker and groped for a towel: every foot of space accounted for, and not one inch wasted. Comfortable enough, once you remembered what to avoid and spared yourself some sharp bumps. All these windows would be useful now that the camper was heading into hot weather, although their thin curtains, even if they gave privacy, weren’t any protection from being awakened by early-morning light: A long sleep, a real bath, that was all she asked for. So far, she had taken everything as it came—except for six days stuck on this beach with all the rest of Greece beckoning. And Istanbul? We’ll see about that, she decided as she finished drying her hair. Jim could be persuaded. If he loved her, he could be persuaded.

  “Nina?” Madge’s voice was half asleep. “Turn on the light. Where were you?”

  “Having a swim.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. Jim balked.”

  “Why on earth?” Madge wakened enough to raise herself on one elbow. “Too romantic for him?” She was speaking slowly, softly.

  “He’s a mystery to me.” There was a long silence. “What about going into Salonika tomorrow? There’s a six o’clock bus.”

  “In the morning?” Madge shook her head. Her weak laugh turned into a yawn.

  “We’ll all be awake by then with that damned sun.”

  “Not me. I’ll be sleeping until noon.” Madge sank back on the pillow. “Another time, Nina,” she said dreamily, totally at peace with the world.

  “Are you all right?” She’s been on edge all day, thought Nina. Why this sudden bliss? The bunk wasn’t as comfortable as all that.

  Madge’s answer was another small laugh, another yawn.

  “We’ll be here six days, Madge.”

  That roused no response.

  Nina said, “We may not even stay in Istanbul—just a quick ride to the ferry.”

  There was a brief response. “No Istanbul?” But there was no indignation, no outburst. Instead, Madge was suddenly asleep.

  Nina laid out a fresh shirt for tomorrow. She’d ride with Jim into Salonika, borrow some drachmas from him until she could change dollars in a bank. Then she’d leave Jim, wander around, see the Byzantine churches and their decorations, and then— oh, well, when she felt good and ready, she’d find her way to the bus stop. Or even take a taxi back here. She checked her wallet and counted her traveller’s cheques, packed sketchbook and pencils into her large shoulder bag. All set.

  Her rising spirits declined sharply when she discovered Madge had drunk most of the water in the carafe beside the collapsible basin, leaving her a couple of sips. No washing of her face, no brushing of her teeth tonight. She’d have to rise at five tomorrow and get to the café and scrounge some water from the Dragon Lady. Those poor kids, she thought as she slipped under the sheet: that awful woman with the harsh voice that sent the two children scurrying. Remembering their thin faces, their large eyes watching the foreigners leave so much on their overheaped plates, she wondered what she had to grumble about.

  It was going to be a restless and brief night. She threw off the sheet, let the gentle breath of air from the wide-opened windows glance over her body. It was easy to rise when her watch told her it was almost five o’clock.

  She left Madge deeply asleep. Outside, in the pale light of a new day, the others were asleep, too. Tony Shawfield was among the scattering of living corpses. No Jim. Was he having breakfast at the café? But he wasn’t there, either. The small boy was already up and around, sweeping out the earth floor. Her English was beyond him, so she unwrapped her face cloth and showed him her toothbrush and soap and did some sign language which amused them both. With teeth cleaned and face washed at the kitchen sink, and a quick visit to the obnoxious toilet—the bushes might be better in future, she decided; oh, the joys of carefree travel—she waved a cheerful goodbye and took a short cut over the rough grass to the highway. She’d have breakfast in Salonika while she studied her guide-book.

  As she reached an outcrop of rock just above a short line of trees along the highway, she saw the bus approaching. It was headed north—the right direction, but its timing was wrong. Barely half-past five, her watch told her. Either it was slow or the Greek buses ran ahead of schedule. She saw Jim rising from his seat on the grass, but he didn’t move forward, didn’t signal. The bus trundled past, its top covered with string-tied suitcases, baskets, cartons. She halted in astonishment, hesitated, and then—as a car approached from the south and Jim stepped out—she retreated behind a meagre bush, as if it could hide her confusion. So he’s hitch-hiking to Salonika, she reassured herself; probably the bus is too crowded with local people market-bound.

  She was about to call out, wave, start towards the highway. Jim was too quick for her. The car was too quick. It barely stopped, a door wide open to let him step inside before it sped on. She dropped on to the grass beside the bush, her shoulders sagging along with all her plans. Then she heard the car again. It had made a turn at the driveway to the Mondrian-Matisse motel and was coming back. For a brief moment she felt a surge of hope. Jim had seen her in spite of all the scraggy bushes around her. He was coming back to get her.

  But he didn’t. The car was travelling at high speed towards the south.

  For many forlorn minutes, she sat watching the empty highway, the lonely stretches of dry grass and grey-green scrub. Then she raised her eyes to the background of hills, of far-off mountain ranges etched against a sky that was turning a clear light blue. She rose, her plans still vague but beginning to have shape like chose distant peaks on the horizon, and started towards the motel. I’ll damned well show him, she told herself.

  ***

  The motel was a recent addition to the landscape. New, its bright colours and bleak design proclaimed: give me another twelve months, add some condominiums and cafés, a shopping centre, a pool and tennis court—then my three stories jutting high over this empty plain won’t seem so lonely. Certainly, thought Nina, the large parking space set to one side of the building showed that expectations were high for the future, although now there were only a dozen cars or so waiting for their owners to awaken and have breakfast. There was also a solitary bus, a large glossy model, the type that toured Europe and supplied package deals. Apart from a gardener watering the young trees and plots of geraniums, and a man hosing down the bus while he chatted with a girl perkily dressed like an airline stewardess, the motel seemed deserted.

  Better and better, thought Nina: anyone in charge would have leisure to talk, give advice, even help. How would she begin? Transportation, first: there must be a taxi or a car for hire. Or—she studied the bus: travelling where? And after transportation had been arranged—she’d even settle for any nearby railway station and a slow train to Athens—she’d get help with a ’phone call all the way to the Maryland shore. It would still be Sunday there; midnight, possibly; perhaps later, if the call to her father took a little time to go through. But, once he got over his annoyance about being hauled out of bed, he’d listen. And then, finally, information about inexpensive hotels in Athens. Elated by her three-point programme, hoping for the best, she called a cheerful good morning to the bus driver and the girl, answered their surprised stare with a friendly wave, and entered the lobby.

  Empty; except for a boy mopping the floor, a middle-aged woman absorbed with passports behind a cluttered desk, and a tall young man, impeccable in a neat black suit, wi
th carefully brushed hair and a melancholy Greek face. Its normally impassive expression gave way to a look of astonishment as he stared at the newcomer. She had a moment of nervousness; then she smiled. “Good morning. I need your advice. Would you be so kind as to help me?”

  The young man’s dark eyes scanned her expertly. Clean and crisp blouse, neat-fitting jeans—and who would quibble with them since the Jacqueline Onassis era?—expensive shoulder bag and shoes, a charming voice, quiet manners, and, above all—he ceased staring—a figure and face that were remarkable. “Yes,” he told her in excellent English, “how may I help you?” He left the desk, came forward to welcome her.

  This may just work, thought Nina, her blue eyes sparkling.

  ***

  By half-past seven, she was back at the camper pulling a dazed Madge out of bed. “Rise and shine! Come on, come on! Pack and get ready to move out. The bus starts loading within the hour.”

  “Bus?”

  “For Athens.”

  That wakened Madge completely. “But how—”

  “Tell you later when we’re squashed into two back seats.” Traveller’s cheques, obligingly cashed by the motel manager, had helped to secure that space. Impossible, the bus attendant had said in halting English, impossible to sell any seats: this was a private tour. Yes, there were four vacancies in the back row, the girl admitted sadly, but impossible to sell. The emphasis was slight but definite—a timid hint? Nina had taken it. “Then don’t sell them,” Nina had suggested. “Just let two be occupied? This is what I intended to pay for a car to take us to Athens,” and quietly she slipped fifty dollars into the driver’s unrefusing hand. (He had been shaking his head all along, over wasted space and agency regulations.) She then had clinched the arrangement by assuring them that she and her American friend, a girl just like herself, wouldn’t bring much luggage, would find their own lunch, keep to themselves, be practically invisible, cause no trouble at all. The little conference broke up in smiles and handshakes. Nina’s budget was sorely dented, but it was a long journey to Athens, and a hired car—if one had been available—would have cost twice fifty dollars and bankrupted her completely. She eased her attack of conscience by noting the clean but fraying cuffs on the driver’s shirt; both he and the thin-faced, harried attendant were obviously overworked and underpaid. Tips from a busload of package-deal tourists being steered through the wonders of Greece couldn’t be overly generous.

  “But how—” repeated Madge.

  “Wear your best shirt,” Nina advised. “If we hurry, you’ll have time to brush your teeth in a real bathroom.”

  “What about breakfast?”

  “We’ll get coffee and a croissant at the motel too.”

  “Motel?”

  “Shut up, darling. I’m thinking.” Nina had drawn out her sketchbook, torn off a page, and was writing. “A message for Jim,” she explained. “I didn’t see Tony around, so I’ll leave it with Guido. He seems the only one who’s half awake.” Nothing but comatose bodies outside. The dead and the dying. What was wrong with them? “How much wine did you drink last night?”

  “Two sips for politeness.”

  “You slept as if you had been hit on the head.”

  “Exhausted.” Or, thought Madge, it might have been that malaria pill handed out by Tony. Perhaps that was the way it acted. Pleasant, anyway: relaxing. “Didn’t you take your pill?”

  “What pill?”

  “For malaria. Tony left one on the washbasin for you. You were down on the beach and—”

  “Didn’t see it. Malaria? But there are no mosquitoes around here?” There wasn’t a pool or a stream or a stagnant puddle in this bone-dry piece of real estate.

  “We should start taking them in advance, Tony says.” Madge knotted the cord of her canvas bag. “Ready to leave.”

  Nina handed her the note to Jim. “Will that do?”

  It was brief. Taking our R and R in Athens and points east. Meet us in Istanbul, four o’clock, 4 September, Hilton Hotel. See you then, Nina.

  “He won’t like it,” Madge said.

  “Why not? It says all that needs to be said.” Nina took the note, folded it—no envelope, but let them all read it—and picked up her tightly packed bag.

  “He will be worried sick.”

  “Good.”

  “Points east?” Madge asked, puzzled.

  “The Aegean. We may not have much time to land on any of the islands, but we can see them, can’t we?”

  “We’re crazy.”

  “Yes, aren’t we?”

  With light hearts, they stepped down into strong sunlight. There wasn’t one cloud in that bright-blue sky.

  11

  Renwick’s exit from Brussels by way of London paid major dividends. They didn’t mature, of course, until a full month later but—even without foresight of information to come—the brief meeting with Ronald Gilman was encouraging.

  Renwick was then at the stage of taking extreme precautions: if a man called Maartens, linked to Theo and East German Intelligence, had been given instructions to eliminate him, there could be a second attempt on his life. It was only when he was considered to be out of the game, showed no interest in anyone or anything connected with Theo, that he might be regarded as possibly negligible and left in uneasy peace.

  He would now be under surveillance, of course. That would last until the reports on his movements became dull, repetitious, boring, and he would make them all of that. So his first twenty-four hours as a man who had quit his job at NATO—even Theo’s agents would have little suspicion that his intelligence-gathering wasn’t strictly on Soviet military manoeuvres—were a very tricky period indeed. Yet he had to meet with Gilman, that quiet self-effacing man who had dodged suspicion for his fifteen years of highly classified work. This was not the time for Renwick to draw Gilman to anyone’s attention, far less Theo’s.

  So there had been precautions for his visit to London. First, he changed his flight and hoped he had complicated others’ arrangements. Next, he made a brief call to London from the Brussels airport, a couple of unremarkable sentences that let Gilman know he was on his way. Then it was a matter of following their previously set plans: baggage left at Heathrow until the early-evening flight to New York, a long stretch of empty hours ahead of him; why not visit the city, drop into a movie house near the Strand? The place was less than half filled, ill-lighted, and noisy with the bangs and booms from a World War II film. Gilman was already seated in the empty back row, a thin tall figure slouching in his unobtrusive way; no one within listening distance even with any hearing device—the noise of the sound track would take care of that. Renwick slipped into an adjacent seat. He sat in silence for several minutes, making sure he hadn’t been followed. But no one entered the cinema, and they could talk.

  There was a succinct briefing of Gilman on Theo; Essen— Kurt Leitner and Section One of the Direct Action terrorists, his tie-up with Theo, his well-arranged escape, his transformation in Rotterdam into an American, his departure for London. “Any possibility about tracing him at this date? Through the airline record of reserved seats, handled by a travel agency that buys them en bloc and pays for them months later? An airline is bound to keep records of what is owed them. Certainly, Leitner wouldn’t risk any delay in buying space at the airport. He must have been booked in advance.”

  “June fourteenth, afternoon flight from Schiphol to Heathrow.” Gilman’s face was imperturbable, as usual, but his voice was far from optimistic.

  “Then there is another puzzle, smaller, less important perhaps. Ilsa Schlott.” Renwick told what he knew.

  “That’s simpler—if she is a student at University College. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Now that Crefeld is dead, I’d like you to head Interintell. Any problems about getting an office, a place for files and communications?”

  “Not if I can suggest to my boss that the French would like to have the Interintell headquarters in Paris.”

  “They’re trying hard
. But they already have Interpol in Paris, so they can hardly argue against London having its fair share.”

  “Why not in Washington? Why not Frank Cooper in charge?”

  “Frank would be the first to agree with me: no security possible with this right-to-know kick they’re on.” What foreign intelligence agencies would trust their secret files on terrorism, their classified information on the doubtful activities of American citizens, to Washington? “That really would dry up our sources of information.” He paused. “How quickly can you set up headquarters? It’s urgent.”

  “We’ll make it most urgent. Give us a month.” Gilman already had an office selected, a skeleton staff in mind. “I’ll be on a quick visit to New York at the end of August.”

  “See you then. Meanwhile, get the word about Theo to Oslo and Copenhagen. I’ve already briefed Claudel, in Paris, and Diehl, in Germany. And what about Vlakos, in Athens? And we need someone in Ankara.”

  “I have a good friend there.” Gilman’s quiet smile lightened his calm face. “It seems that Interintell is really on its way.”

  With a file on Theo as its first case. Most fitting, thought Renwick: Crefeld’s death would not be meaningless. “Would you meet with Vroom? Brief him on Interintell, get him to replace Crefeld—if you think he fits in.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure.” Or, wondered Renwick, is my bruised ego still smarting? “He’s making himself too visible for my taste. Could be a danger—to himself, to us.”

  “Justifying his promotion? That may wear off. What other choice do we have?”

  “Not much. I was betting everything on Crefeld.” He could sense Ron Gilman’s empathy. It was a good moment to leave. Renwick rose, walking unhurriedly to the nearest fire exit for a quick but safe route back to Heathrow.

  Precautions, precautions... They seemed comic, an unnecessary waste of time and energy. Until you remembered a man approaching you in a crowded lobby with a highly sophisticated weapon disguised as a simple walking stick.

  ***